


Neighbourly Relations

by Himring



Series: Gloom, Doom and Maedhros [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Beleriand, the newly assigned territory of Angrod and Aegnor borders on the territory of the cousins who betrayed them.<br/>From the time of settlement to their death in battle, what were the relations between Angrod and Aegnor and their cousin Maedhros, son of Feanor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early days

**Author's Note:**

> Aegnor's POV.  
> Epilogue (Aegnor to Andreth) now posted. (This can probably be read on its own, although you will lose some of my characterization of Aegnor in the process.)

We had had a glass of the red that Cirdan had sent with lunch to celebrate Eldalote’s first successes in cheese-making on a larger scale. Everything was so new to us, then, and we celebrated it all, every step forwards, every single achievement. I could tell Angarato was feeling unusually mellow. He was whistling very softly, almost under his breath, as we walked along the corridor to his office. I could not quite make out the tune. His mood changed abruptly when he saw the messenger who had been kicking his heels in the anteroom, for, almost at once, he had spotted the Feanorian star on the seal of the scroll that was being held out to him. He accepted it rather ungraciously, by his standards, pulled me inside the office and closed the door.

Then he unrolled the scroll right where he stood, glanced at the beginning of the letter and handed it over to me.

‘For you.’

 _To my right beloved cousins Angrod and Aegnor, Lords of Dorthonion..._ , I read silently. I raised an eyebrow at Angarato, who frowned impatiently.

‘Well, what does he have to say?’

 _...Maedhros, son of Feanor, sends most cordial greetings_. I sighed inwardly and scanned the rest of the letter.

‘What does he want?’ Angarato asked again.

‘The same thing as last time. He requests a meeting to discuss several different matters of security and commerce that have arisen on our eastern border.’

‘You go.’

Angarato is named for iron, iron of mind and iron of fist, and, when there is iron in his voice, as there was then, there has never been any use in arguing. I sighed again, audibly this time.

‘All right.’

***

We were quick to establish traditions in these our new homelands and so I arranged to meet Russandol again in the same place where I had met him last time. A narrow winding path descended from the plateau of the highlands towards the pass of Aglon, barely wide enough for two riders abreast. Halfway down, it broadened into a kind of shelf in the mountain face, large enough for a small camp to be set up more or less exactly where a stroke of our uncle’s pen had drawn the border between Dorthonion and the Marches on a rough map of Beleriand.

Russandol was already there when I arrived. He stood politely awaiting me, tall and straight, his deformity hidden under his dark grey cloak. I expected to see his gaze go past me, seeking Angarato and noting his absence, but apparently he had already noticed it when we were further away and higher up. Or maybe he had deduced from the wording of my letter that I would be coming alone, although I had tried to keep it vague, just in case Angarato changed his mind after all. Russandol greeted me warmly as if it had only ever been myself he was expecting, speaking courteous words of welcome and hospitality, and I gladly accepted his offer of water ready heated for us to wash the stains of travel away and a light meal to follow, both for me and my escort.

It was only later, as my companions busied themselves putting up our own tents and Russandol and I walked by ourselves along the edge of the cliff, out of earshot, that I began to tell him how very busy we were and how very hard Angarato was working to make Dorthonion habitable for our people. And all of that was true, but Russandol turned a knowing glance on me and my voice faltered. I blushed and stammered and knew that my pretence that Angarato’s refusal to respond to Russandol’s letter in any way was completely normal and explicable had failed.

‘You need not try so hard to come up with reasons for Angarato’s absence, you know’, said Russandol gently. ‘I never expected him to come.’

‘You did not?!’, I exclaimed, surprised and feeling rather put out. Last time, he had seemed to swallow my would-be casual explanation whole. ‘But you addressed the letter to both of us, putting his name first…’

Russandol smiled at me. ‘I can be very stubborn. I have to warn you: I’m afraid I will continue to address most of my letters to both of you. Because, you know, you never know…’

This was worse than when I had imagined him oblivious. More than ever, I felt myself caught between my brother and my cousin. It was my brother I wanted to defend, at heart—but my cousin was here, right in front of me, and looking unnervingly unoffended.

‘Well, you know he is still very angry, of course…’

I stopped, distressed. That had not quite come out as I meant it to. Where had that _of course_ come from—and why spoken in that tone? I had not intended to reproach Russandol. There was nothing to be gained by holding the Sons of Feanor at arms’ length, not any longer. I did disagree with Angarato about that…

Russandol lifted his eyebrows. It drew my attention to the faint scars on his cheek and forehead that I had been trying to ignore.

‘I do not believe the reason that Angarato does not want to see me is that he resents me because of Alqualonde or Losgar’, Russandol said calmly. ‘Angarato thinks I should be dead.’

‘No!’, I said, shocked. ‘How can you possibly believe that of him?’

‘How? Aikanaro, I am fortunate that only one member of my family thinks I should be dead. If I were a Sinda, my whole family would think so. People do not come back from Angband, the Sindar say, from bitter experience. But we, being Noldor and descendants of Finwe, have decided it is not true of us…’

‘But, Russandol…! That is absolutely barbaric! Those poor, uneducated, benighted Sindar—of course, they know no better than to shun and even kill Morgoth’s unfortunate victims. But you cannot think… None of us would ever dream… Angarato wouldn’t…’

I stopped spluttering and drew a deep breath.

‘We are of Aman, of the Light’, I said firmly. ‘We grew up in the Time of the Trees. It is our mission to bring civilization to Middle-Earth. The Umanyar will learn to see the error of their ways; they will rid themselves of all their superstitious nonsense under our beneficial influence!’

I had expected Russandol to look gratified and possibly a little impressed at my determined rejection of Sindarin prejudices. I had not expected him to look so astounded; I was not entirely sure whether I should put his astonishment down to admiration…

‘Well’, he said, with a strange kind of hesitation. ‘You are, after all, Findarato’s brother and Findarato is, without a doubt, the most civilized person I know.’

Clearly, he saw me look a little crestfallen and hastened to add: ‘I’m sure the Sindar will appreciate your good intentions, Aikanaro!’

He reached out with his left hand and gave my shoulder a little squeeze—the first time we had touched since my arrival or—come to think of it—since Mithrim.

‘It is late already and will be later by the time you have finished setting up. Let us postpone all serious business until tomorrow, shall we?’, he said. ‘But I would like to hear a little more about how you have been doing, all of you!’

And so, striving for neutral subjects, I told him about our exploration of the pass of Anach, about hunting and fishing around Tarn Aeluin and about Eldalote’s cheese. And Russandol, smiling again, said that he looked forward to trying it when Eldalote was ready to export, and I told him he would get a taste sooner than that, for I had brought some as a gift. So we had it for supper and Russandol was full of praise.

But it was not until I lay on my bed-roll that night—trying to relax in unfamiliar surroundings after what seemed a long day—that it occurred to me that Russandol had not said that the Sindar were wrong in what they believed. It was only I who had.


	2. After the arrival of the Edain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the meantime, the Edain have arrived in Beleriand and the House of Beor has settled in Angrod and Aegnor's territory, in Ladros. The next meeting between Aegnor and Maedhros will be the first after the council meeting summoned by Fingolfin in which Aegnor argued strongly for an attack on Angband and Maedhros advised against it. It is also their first meeting after Aegnor has fallen in love with Andreth.

‘Aikanaro… ‘, Russandol said under his breath. And then more firmly: ‘Aegnor.’

He extended his hand to me in greeting, but he was eyeing me warily, as if he thought I might start shouting at him at any moment. I felt rather embarrassed. It was not that I was not still feeling considerable resentment about the way he had changed his mind without warning, as it seemed to me—speaking out against a concerted attack on the Enemy, when before that he had always been the one who was pushing for unflagging vigilance and constant readiness for battle! But I was more or less resigned to the outcome of the last council meeting now—or at least believed that nothing could be done about it just yet—and I did not quite like to remember everything I had said on the occasion. The indication that Russandol evidently did was unwelcome.

Had he taken seriously what I had said, every single word of it? How aggravating of him! So often he had me chafing under the impression that he regarded all that I said and did with tolerant bemusement, from the height of his superior intellect… But his memory had always been uncomfortably good—he did not harp on past grievances or sulk, but he did not quite forget and, somehow, one knew he had not, even if it never came up in conversation.

Some of Russandol’s escort—although I believed they had been intended to look neither martial nor intimidating, for they were scattered about in twos and threes behind him on the grass and among the tents and were only lightly armed—nevertheless had rather grim expressions on their faces. It was unfortunate that not all of my more intemperate remarks had remained private within the family. It seemed that rumour had reached all the way to the Marches. 

Clearly, it was time to start talking about the weather and, quickly, I did, in order to dispel the tense silence hanging over our meeting. It was not my favourite subject, normally—even when the weather had actually done something to attract attention to itself—and Russandol knew this. By the time I had talked about the weather in general, the weather and travelling conditions, the weather and last year’s harvest, the weather and prospects for the coming year, my wretched cousin had stopped looking wary and appeared to be betting with himself how long I could keep this up. Incensed by his failure to properly appreciate my efforts, I stopped for breath and he smoothly slipped in a question. Of course, he was good at these things, for the most part, and before I knew it we had settled into our old routine.

There was a lot of routine to settle into. Our traditional meeting place, the rock shelf we had originally fixed on almost by coincidence, had over the years become an established way-station for travellers between the Marches and Dorthonion. There were amenities, now. A sturdy hut had been erected to provide shelter during harsh weather. In the summer months it did double duty as a kind of wayside inn: they sent someone down from the nearest village above to live there for the duration and supply bread, cheese and small ale for a modest fee. Further back, at certain distance, there was a well-designed row of latrines. The camping ground had been provided with a set of secure mortared fire-places and was fenced off with a wall on one side to keep the unwary from straying too far toward the precipitous incline below.

And it was still Russandol and me who met here to negotiate, always the two of us. Russandol, as he had warned me he would, had persisted in addressing all messages to both Angarato and me—except for the occasional strictly private letter—but had not mentioned Angarato’s absence during our meetings to me again. I, on the other hand, had started back home that time with the firm intention of confronting Angarato with Russandol’s absurd theory in order that I might at least convey Angarato’s outright denial to Russandol—unless, that is, dismay that such a suspicion could have arisen should impel Angarato to speak directly with Russandol again himself.

That resolve had, somehow, crumbled. I still thought Russandol was wrong about Angarato. But on the way home—and occasionally since then—I had had leisure to consider how different Angarato’s attitude to Russandol was from how he treated Tyelkormo and Curufinwe when they met. True, such meetings were not many, despite the proximity of Aglon, and they were not exactly relaxed or altogether friendly, but still there was none of that iron rejection on Angarato’s part that he had for Russandol. Towards Tyelkormo and Curufinwe, Angarato showed more of an occasionally jaded tolerance.

That did not prove that Russandol was right about Angarato’s motives. I myself felt quite differently about Tyelkormo and Curufinwe, I had to admit. It was not entirely logical—in fact, it was clearly not logical, but Turko and Curvo were closer to us in age and they had never pretended to be… Had never pretended to be what? Had Russandol claimed to be anything other than he was?

Whether he had or not, we had been more familiar with Tyelkormo and Curufinwe and their weaknesses—and it was Russandol we had ended up being more deeply disappointed by. He had once been the one who broke up our childhood quarrels and mended our toys. We had none of us been children for quite a long time but he had somehow retained a shadow of his former moral authority in our eyes, past the age when perhaps we should have known better. So we were inclined to blame him more for letting us down—in Tirion, at Alqualonde and at Losgar—than his brothers, because we had suspected from the outset that they would follow their father regardless of any other considerations. That might not be altogether fair, but it was a fact.

And despite painstakingly reasoning all this out, I was still not prepared to speak openly to Angarato and test my hypothesis. Even when that ill-fortuned council meeting had ended in shouting and rancorous disorder, I had ranted away, casting aspersions on Russandol’s character right, left and centre—arrant coward, I had called him to his face, complacent fool, liar—but I had not mentioned his past imprisonment in Angband, let alone what he had said to me—not to him, not to Angarato nor to anyone else.

I had had opportunities to consider what it might mean not to return fully from Angband. No longer was it something that happened only to Sindar. To my knowledge, a handful of captured Noldor had escaped or been freed over the years. Ardil had disappeared again, under suspicious circumstances. Saron had, without warning, strangled his wife and daughter and then set himself on fire. Maryame had not walked since, although she had been freed more than two hundred years of the sun ago. My friend Vanimo now lived like a prisoner in his quarters and suffered agonies of fear every time he had to set foot outside the door.

Of those whose fate I knew, Russandol seemed to have made the best recovery by far. I did not even want to think about that. And I did not want to hear what Angarato had to say about it in case it was not what I wanted to hear.

Angarato had not been able to avoid Russandol entirely over the years, of course. They had occasionally met formally at the councils my uncle summoned, including this last one. And when they did, I occasionally felt the urge to shout at Russandol: Look, look, how can you possibly think my brother, your cousin, would wish to see you dead?! But always the words died on my lips as my gaze wandered to and fro between their inexpressive faces. Russandol’s relentless courtesy seemed as unyielding, in its way, as Angarato’s iron mien. Neither gave anything away.

Russandol was being courteous to me now, inviting me into his tent. Having established that I did not plan to continue heaping reproaches on his head, he was proceeding with business as usual. But I had a reputation for plain speaking, although sometimes I wondered how deserved it was...

As we entered, I impulsively reached out and clasped his shoulder and, cutting straight across one of his urbane phrases, blurted out in Quenya: ‘How are you?’

His eyes widened a little and, for a moment, his hand came up as if to fend me off; then it stopped in mid-air and changed direction. With the tips of his fingers, he briefly touched the back of my hand where it rested on his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Aiko, I am quite well’, he said softly.

He had not called me Aiko in a very long time. I guessed he had understood what I meant to ask, but I was less certain whether he had actually answered my question or just given me a soothing pat on the head, so to speak. Maybe it made no difference; maybe that was simply all the answer he had to offer. I took my hand away and we continued our conversation in Sindarin as before.

There were things to discuss and they took time. We talked about tariffs and trade. We talked about patrols and military intelligence. We talked about craft developments and general news. We talked one evening—cautiously in Quenya and out of earshot of anyone else—about Thingol and about Cirdan. There was not much change to report on that front: Cirdan was still willing to put up with any Noldor who were willing to form a barrier between his havens of Brithombar and Eglarest and Angband so long as those Noldor refrained from waving reminders of the Kinslaying straight under his nose, while Thingol tolerated nobody except my siblings and myself and was liable to give even us short shrift if we displeased him in any way.

I was quite prone to displeasing my great-uncle. There was not enough of the Teler in me, apparently. And maybe indeed there was not, but sometimes it seemed to me that Elwe Singollo’s ideas of what made a Teler were even narrower than the Girdle of Melian.

Russandol listened intently to the little I was prepared to say about Doriath. He seemed to feel that it was up to us to deal with Thingol—notwithstanding that it was mainly he and his brothers who were responsible for our problems with Thingol to begin with—although in fact there was not all that much he could do, I supposed, as Thingol had refused him and all his people entry into Doriath altogether. Maybe one of the reasons why he had voted against the proposed attack on Angband was that he thought we had not tried hard enough to ally Thingol more closely to our cause. He had not explicitly said so. Nevertheless sometimes in the past I felt I had almost seen the question hovering on his lips: Aikanaro, do you not realize how important this matter is to our chances of survival?

I did realize how important it was. Despite that, sometimes I felt a strong reluctance even to make the attempt—and sometimes it was because of my reservations about Russandol and his brothers and sometimes it was because of Thingol… And in any case, I was no diplomat. However even Findarato, who certainly was, had not succeeded in making all that much headway with Thingol—support in building projects, yes, promises of military aid in case of need even for Nargothrond, let alone for any other Noldorin realm, no.

Russandol’s grey eyes were fixed soberly on mine and I stiffened slightly, thinking he might be about to breach his silence and we would end up having to speak about Alqualonde again. But then he looked away for a moment, sighed a little and smiled at me and I knew to my relief that, once again, we would not. Shortly after that we parted for the night.

It was early the following afternoon as we paced together in the sunshine back and forth along the low wall that bordered the encampment—having spent all morning sitting bent over pages of records and draft agreements—that Russandol asked me lightly: ‘So, now that the First House is settled in your realm in Ladros, how do you find yourself feeling about the Atani, Aikanaro?’

As it was the advent of the Edain that had triggered the ill-omened council meeting, this conversational gambit was almost certainly intended as a further step in easing things between us back into their accustomed rut, but I had reasons to be self-conscious about my attitude to the Edain that Russandol could not be aware of.

Awkwardly, I tried to deflect his question: ‘But surely you’ve encountered them yourself? You met Beor during that little skirmish near Aglon, didn’t you? And since they settled in Ladros there must have been plenty of occasion for contact with his people—why, I’ve been told they even have a name of their own for you!’

‘Ah, yes… Dayred Lefthand!’ Russandol gave a small snort of laughter. ‘Lefthand, of course, being an extremely polite way of putting things… That allusion to my hair colour perhaps a little less so…’

‘Dayred is just their way of saying Dawn’, I said defensively.

‘I know! Meaning that each morning they look east from Ladros and catch sight of me on the battlements of Himring, my head of hair flaming crimson in the sunrise? A striking image, but rather unlikely!’

Russandol's eyes were alight with amusement. He stopped and sat down, perching on top of the dry-stone wall and patted the rocky surface next to him invitingly.

‘You like them, don’t you?’ he asked kindly.

I sat down beside him.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I do.’ And taking a deep breath, I burst out: ‘Russandol, does it ever strike you how stale and unprofitable our life in Valinor was, how limited the scope of our imagination? Before we arrived here in Endore, had we the least idea of the possibilities, of the riches that life could hold? I used to believe our role here was to spread the light of Aman, bring insight and knowledge to benighted minds and alleviate the darkness of their ignorance. But I tell you, Russandol, whatever gifts we have to bestow are as nothing compare to what Endore holds for us. It is Middle-earth that teaches us and it is we who are here to learn and…’

Suddenly, I stopped in mid-flow, aghast at realizing the extent of my insensitivity and complete lack of tact. How could I have let myself forget who I was talking to? This was after all the same cousin for whose state of mind I had such dire fears. Who would be less likely to sympathize with me on this subject than Russandol? And who would be more unlikely to appreciate the harsh lessons Endore had had in store for him since the moment he had first set foot in this land? The most I could hope for was that he would dismiss my outburst with a weary smile as yet more proof of Aikanaro’s irreparable naivety.

But Russandol did not seem offended by my lack of judgement nor was his expression dismissive. He sat calmly on the wall beside me, the stump of his right arm, which at some point he had stopped concealing, lying relaxed in his lap. Maybe he had only ever made a point of concealing it because he had realized it bothered me. In the bright sunlight, I could see those thin lines of scars running across his face quite clearly. But his face was gravely attentive as if he was considering the truth of what I had said. He looked east for a moment, out across the plain of Himlad and the Marches towards the Blue Mountains, and then turned back towards me.

‘It would be good to think so, Aikanaro’, he said simply.

***

On the day of my departure, on a sharp turn in the switchback trail, I looked back down the steep slope to the camp on the rock shelf below. Russandol was standing there alone, just where I had left him, gazing after me. When he saw me looking down, he raised his hand, sketching a brief wave.

I wondered why, when he had forfeited so much of my trust, I still sometimes ended up telling him things I had told nobody else, not even my brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note re "Dayred/Dawn Lefthand": this is a wholly fanciful interpretation of the Old English name given to Maedhros by Tolkien in an Old English version of the Annals. My suggestion that, because Old English later represents the language of the Rohirrim in LOTR, this name might have been given to Maedhros by Edain is probably completely unjustified.


	3. Dagor Bragollach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last meeting between Aegnor and Maedhros just as the war breaks out that will cost Aegnor and Angrod their lives

Fire pours forth from Angband. At our feet, Ard-galen is beginning to burn.

Angarato takes a single, comprehensive look and turns away from the view to the north. Although a moment ago he was all haste as we stormed up the long flight of steps to the guard platform, high above the doomed plain, and in a moment he will be all breathless haste again, he moves slowly now—walks deliberately, step by step, back across the platform to the head of the stairs, his head bent, his shoulders slightly hunched, face clouded with thought. Reaching it, he looks around for me to make sure I am coming.

He does not speak. He, too, knows now, I see, and I wonder how long he has done so. Eldalote will be furious when she works out why she had to be the one to carry our messages to Findarato and Artaresto in person. But we will not be there to bear the brunt of her rage.

We leap down the steps together, and once again everything descends into a melee, Angarato barking his orders and I yelling mine. We have long been preparing for this day and I thought we had prepared ourselves so well—no, surely, we had! Why then, now, is so much undone, so much still left to do?

Suddenly a small scroll is thrust into Angarato’s hand—the familiar imprint of the Feanorian star on its wax seal smudged and lop-sided this time—and he is arrested in mid shout, stands still, clasping the unopened scroll.

‘Aiya, Russandol’, he says softly and, unexpectedly, his voice is full of regret.

But still he passes it to me unopened.

‘What does he say?’

‘He asks whether there is time for a quick meeting to coordinate our response to this attack. I don’t think there is…’

‘We cannot both of us go, no. But you could still manage it, travelling fast and light.’

That he should even mention the possibility of both us going!

‘Then you should go, Angarato.’

‘No. It would not be practical.’

And he is right. For centuries now, he has concentrated his efforts on the west of Dorthonion, while I focussed mine on the eastern defences, and partly precisely so that he could avoid our cousin—if either of us is to meet Russandol in what little time there remains, it must be me.

‘Choose the fastest horse’, he says. ‘And go as quickly as you can.’

‘But, Angarato, shall I not give him a message?’

‘A message?’

He stands, seemingly at a loss. His gaze roams around his study, as if he might find a message for our cousin hanging on the walls—such a gracious, orderly space, carefully furnished decade by decade with much of the best and most prized artwork of Dorthonion! But it is as if the shadow of Angband had fallen on it already, reducing all the achievements we were still so proud of yesterday to mere possessions, plunder for orcs. They have lost their essence, their value—all except those that will still serve us in battle. There is nothing here that will do as a last and final gift for our cousin—and casting another impatient, almost desperate, gaze around the room, Angarato suddenly seizes on the simple goose-feather quill that lies abandoned on his desk where he dropped it when news of the attack came, freshly cut, its tip stained with dried ink.

‘Give him this’, he says, firmly.

So many courteous missives addressed, unfailingly, to him as well as to me, ‘because I am rather stubborn, cousin’, but my equally stubborn brother never answered any of them…

‘Give it to him’, Angarato repeats. ‘And go now, Aikanaro, go!’

***

Russandol comes riding up the mountain path more swiftly than is entirely safe and calls out to me before he is quite within earshot. As he approaches and dismounts in front of me, he is already talking to me at high speed, pouring out a stream of news, suggestions, forming plans.

I feel a little overwhelmed at all this and have to take a deep breath before I interrupt him and say firmly: ‘No, we can’t.’

He falls silent, a somewhat stunned look on his face, as if he had stumbled over a large boulder in his path that he had completely overlooked.

‘You can’t?’ he repeats. But as I open my mouth, he adds quickly: ‘No, don’t start explaining! There isn’t time. Tell me what you can do!’

As quickly as possible, in hurried tones, we agree on a much more modest and rudimentary common strategy—and, although I do not say so, already I can see that this, too, is going to fail.

‘We will’, says Russandol in conclusion, nodding, and is already turning back to his horse, his thoughts clearly already well ahead of him, dwelling on the next step and next and the needs of those awaiting him in the Marches below.

‘Russandol’, I say, trying to regain his attention.

He keeps on moving, reaching for the bridle—the impetus is too strong or maybe he has not even really heard me.

‘Russandol! I want—we need to say farewell!’

He lurches as if I had stabbed him. His hand falls away from the bridle. The change in him is astounding, at least to me, for I have lived with that thought long enough to get used to it. His face looks so white, so desperate all of a sudden, his eyes beseeching me...

So that is what he looked like at Losgar.

The thought comes to me unbidden. It is a revelation. Somehow, without ever quite disbelieving the story about his standing aside at Losgar, I had never quite believed it either. It seemed so pat—the way his brothers had never mentioned it before Russandol was rescued by Findekano, the way it came out just as soon as Findekano had rescued him, while Russandol was far too ill to confirm or deny it, the way Russandol and his brothers avoided referring to it afterwards. I had felt, vaguely, that my feelings were being manipulated.

Except now my memory is clearing and I see that there was nothing pat about it at all. Tyelkormo came rushing up while we ourselves were still struggling with the shock of what had had happened to our cousin. He took one look at his brother—his condition was obvious enough—and backed away at once. He was not looking at any of us, eyes wide and unfocussed as if the sight of his brother had struck him blind, as he choked out: _He asked Father, you know. He asked: Who will you send for first—Findekano the Valiant?_ He drew a shuddering breath. He whispered: _And he stood aside…afterwards at the burning…_ Then he stumbled off, probably to throw up somewhere behind a tent.

Later, rumour filled in the outlines, but there never was anything like an official account. They were like that, Russandol and his brothers; they had always been like that. Even although it was obvious to any discerning observer that they sometimes fought in private like cats and dogs, even when it would have been more politic for them to be seen to disagree, they closed ranks in public, all seven of them, instinctively, to present an united front to the world, as if to pretend that seven were one…

‘I’m sorry’, says Russandol.

I blink. For a moment, I thought he was apologizing for Losgar again. Then it dawns on me that he is apologizing for my death, as if he had personally caused it. But in truth it is going to be more of a collaborative effort, isn’t it?

‘I do not regret coming’, I tell him.

‘You lighten the burden on my House by saying so’, answers Russandol. ‘But I wished a long life for you.’ Now his eyes are wet. ‘If I had not voted against attacking, when our uncle suggested it…’

The outcome might well have been the same. And if he had, I would not have known and loved Andreth. I shrug and give him a small smile. He reaches out and ruffles my hair so that it stands all on end. A long time ago, I remember he was the first of my elders to notice that I considered myself too grown-up for such gestures and to stop doing that. But it feels good now.

Russandol sighs. He reaches for the bridle again.

‘Russandol!’

He stops and gives me an enquiring look.

‘I have this for you—from Angarato.’

He holds out his palm and I put the quill on it. He stands for a moment, palm outstretched, weighing it in his hand. Then he carefully puts it away.

He leaps into the saddle. I watch him ride back down the path more swiftly than is entirely safe, but not for long. I have my own destination to get to and little enough time to get there.

At some point during the wild ride back, it occurs to me that I never told him about Andreth. But then I realize that, of course, I did—I told him everything about her except her name.

  
***

_‘I’m afraid we are beginning to run out of feathers’, says the fletcher._

_The siege was long. There are few livestock left within Himring’s walls and few birds of any kind._

_‘I believe there is a small store of feathers for spare quills kept in the scriptorium,’ says Maedhros. ‘I don’t know how well suited they are for the purpose, but I guess they will be better than nothing. I will see they are delivered to you.’_

_He hesitates, then reaches inside his clothing and brings out a single goose feather, its tip stained with ink._

_‘Use this one.’_

_‘But, Lord Maedhros’, asks the fletcher, somewhat bewildered at being offered a single feather, ‘is this not a personal quill of yours? Do you not want to keep it for writing with?’_

_‘I do not think this quill will write again’, says Maedhros quietly. ‘And our enemies are not well versed in the epistolary art. Fletch me an arrow that will fly true and straight and find its mark and I will be content.’_

_And he places the goose feather in the fletcher’s open palm._


	4. Epilogue: Aegnor to Andreth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor's reflections (monologue)  
> Set on a mountain slope in Dorthonion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the previous chapter, the Epilogue is set a little time before the outbreak of the Dagor Bragollach. 
> 
> Canonicity issues: see end notes.

I saw you first at Tarn Aeluin, as I walked beside your father along the shore. You were playing with your cousins, chasing each other in a game of tag. A spray of gravel and small pebbles flew from your quick feet as you swerved to avoid capture. As you ran, you laughed with the joy of the game.

I loved you then. Should I have said anything? You were young even by the standards of the Edain. I waited. It is a thing we do, we Noldor.

You grew older and, for one brief hot summer, we waded among the reeds in Lake Aeluin together and climbed the steep slopes among the pines to stand gazing out over the land and let the breeze touch our faces. Only, by then, I could see all too clearly what was coming. Not to tell you would have amounted to a lie, so I did.

‘Then let us marry right away and have children,’ you replied immediately.

It is the way of your kin. That is how they survive among the dangers of Middle-earth, begetting children in the face of disaster. They live in the present and promise each other eternity.

I tried to see it your way. But I am a Noldo, too literal-minded. I could not make myself speak promises I knew I would have to break. You took it that I did not love you—or that I did not love you as you wished to be loved.

Andreth, Andreth, I am still out here among the pines. It is you who stay in the house, learning the bitter lore of your kin and looking for lines in your face in the mirror. But your heart has aged more quickly than your face. And it seems that is my fault. Perhaps it is my punishment.

And now my time is running out more quickly than yours. Death draws closer, day by day, to me and to those I learned to love. There is little I can do to stem that tide, however hard I try.

And yet, Father, if you were to reach out your hand now and offer to pull me to safety in Valinor, I would not come. I have fallen far too far in love with short-lived things. I could not endure life in slow, sad Valinor again.

For here it is in everything: around me the pines, the welling streams, the mountain air itself, all ache with mutability. Even the rocks I stand on already dream of falling, being submerged by the sea.

So let me fall with them and merely hope that, as we fall, we will still be held, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter End Notes:
> 
> This will pass only as canonical if you are willing to accept that neither Finrod nor Andreth in the Athrabeth are entirely reliable witnesses to what happened between Aegnor and Andreth. And I have to confess that it grew in my head at a time when I didn't have Morgoth's Ring with me and ever since then it has refused to budge.
> 
> However, I will say that even when I was reading the Athrabeth first time, Finrod seemed to me suspiciously certain about what was going on in his brother's head. I would have trusted his account more if he had claimed to know less. Andreth is a different case: she says far less, but she is clearly very bitter.
> 
> If you wish to decide for yourself that it is my Aegnor who is the unreliable witness, you are welcome to do so.

**Author's Note:**

> Two extracts from Chapter Three were first written and posted to the B2MeM community on LiveJournal.


End file.
